


Knock, Knock

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Knock knock," he stated in a clear voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock, Knock

John's door was shut. Sherlock regarded it for a moment, then glanced down at the tray in his hands. John had been extremely clear that when his door was shut, Sherlock had to knock. He had been clear about it at a loud enough volume for most of Baker Street to hear, and had then backed his initial statement up with several reminders over the next few weeks, and a series of notes put up around the flat. Sherlock had been initially annoyed that John thought his attention span was so short, then amused that he thought the matter so important, and then impressed with his perseverance.

At any rate, he did not want to risk starting the whole thing up again, but there was nowhere to set the tray down. Well, knocking was more about the intention than the action, surely?

"Knock knock," he stated in a clear voice.

There was a silence for a moment before John replied. "Who's there?"

Sherlock frowned. He had not realised that John was so ill as to not recognise his voice. "Sherlock," he said.

"Sherlock who?" asked John, but his tone was far more amused than confused and Sherlock decided he was being made fun of in some way he didn't understand.

"Don't be silly, John, you know who I am. Open the door."

There came the breathy chuckle that John made when he knew he was going to be the only one laughing but just couldn't help himself, then footsteps and the door finally opened.

John was in his pyjamas and a jumper, his feet ensconced in several pairs of socks, and he looked very pale, but he was grinning as he let Sherlock in. "I suppose you've deleted that as well," he said.

"Deleted what?" asked Sherlock, looking around for somewhere to set the tray down. The bedside table was covered with a collection of pill bottles, several half-empty mugs and glass, John's laptop and an odd mixture of books, so Sherlock crossed to the desk instead.

"Never mind," said John. He climbed back into the bed with obvious relief that he didn't have to stand any longer, and lay back against the mound of pillows he had accumulated. "Is that for me? That's very nice of you." He sounded suspicious, which meant that he knew how unlikely it was that Sherlock would provide a lunch tray for a sick person. Sherlock gave him a look as if he was exasperated by the reaction, but secretly he was pleased. John was intelligent enough, even when sick, to distrust an unexplained change in behaviour.

"Mrs. Hudson did it," he said, and John's face relaxed a bit. "I merely brought it up because she started on about how difficult it was to cope with the stairs with her hip." Not strictly true, but it calmed John's suspicions completely.

"That was kind of her," he said. "And you," he added.

Sherlock allowed his feelings at that comment to show on his face, and John laughed. The effort was clearly a bit much for him and he leaned back further against the pillows with a tired sigh.

Sherlock took in the state of him with one glance. "You're feeling better," he said.

"A bit," said John. "I've reached the horribly boring phase, where you can't concentrate enough to actually do anything, but just lying around being sick isn't enough to take all your attention any more."

Sherlock grimaced. It was about that stage that he usually started some sort of mild warfare against Mycroft, and then was too tired to follow through so that Mycroft ended up winning by default. It was always insufferable. "Do you want me to keep you company for a bit?" he offered.

John gave him a pleasantly surprised smile that Sherlock decided he wouldn't mind seeing again, and often. "That would be great," he said. "Thank you."

"In that case," said Sherlock, picking the tray up again and carrying it over to John. "You eat, and I shall tell you about a couple of the cases that I solved before I met you." He knew just which ones, as well - there was a couple with more than enough adventure to satisfy John, and which showed Sherlock's genius particularly well.

"Sounds excellent," said John, still smiling as he took the tray and settled it on his knees. Sherlock thought for a moment of sitting on the bed next to him, but in the end retreated to the desk chair, sat down and started in on the tale.

John was rapt, of course. He ate a lot more off the tray than Sherlock would have expected, given the likely state of his stomach, his eyes on Sherlock's face as he spoke far more than on the food. By the time he'd finished and set aside the tray, Sherlock had thrilled him with two tales of high adventure and lightning-fast deductions. John settled back against his pillows with a tiny, happy-but-weary sigh, and Sherlock started another tale, one that relied heavily on Sherlock describing the precise differences between seven different types of cigarette ash. John was asleep within minutes.

Sherlock allowed himself a smile of satisfaction, and then another, less easily-defined smile followed, one he wasn't sure he entirely approved of. Not knowing how to categorise his own emotions was troubling. He forced both the smile and the brief desire to stay and watch John sleep to one side, picked up the tray and went back downstairs to return it to Mrs. Hudson.

 

****

 

Two weeks later, John was fully recovered, they'd solved a case and were at the stage of having to wait around for the authorities to sort themselves out. Sherlock had been trying to explain the complexities of the case to the forensics team, but gave up when their blank stares started to suggest to him that their brains had been removed at birth. As long as they did their jobs properly, it didn't matter if they didn't understand why, so he turned and headed off to find John instead.

He found him leaning against a police car with Lestrade, but paused his approach when he overheard what he was saying to the DI.

"This'll make you laugh. Knock knock."

Sherlock's mind flashed back to that day outside John's bedroom, and he wondered if he was about to get an explanation for John's amusement.

"Who's there?" replied Lestrade, and Sherlock frowned, wondering how he knew what to respond with.

"Sherlock," said John, grinning.

"Oh, this'll be good," said Lestrade. "Sherlock who?"

"Don't be silly, you know who I am. Open the door," said John, and for some reason that made both John and Lestrade burst into fits of laughter.

Sherlock huffed with annoyance. It made no sense, it had been a perfectly normal thing to say under those circumstances, surely? He was about to turn on his heel and walk away but then John looked up and saw him.

"Sherlock," he said, and the smile that crossed his face at just the sight of Sherlock was enough to make Sherlock walk over to him rather than away. After all, the only way to understand something was to investigate it, and that went for the effect that John seemed to have on him as much as it went for moronic jokes.


End file.
